topotales

Not long ago, the remote controller for our television went missing.  After searching the couch cushions, under the couch, the kitchen counters, the nursery and the dog’s bed (because it never ceases to amaze me what Charlie deems cuddly), I had a better idea.  Why keep searching around like an idiot when I could just CALL the remote and follow its ringing?  I picked up my phone and stared at the numbers.  And I actually thought to myself: “What the hell phone number does the remote have?”  …wait for it… wait for it… OH, UH, …RIIIIIIGGGGHHHHT.

Then I called Pnut and told him I might need to go back on my meds.

I may have bedazzled the dog.  Yep, that just might have happened.

At least three times in the past two weeks, Pnut and I have been driving along and I’ve started shouting

“DEER!  DEER!  DEER!”

while my foot pumps the airbrake on the passenger side, and my hands brace for impact.  Paolo looks at me sideways, a bit stunned and confused as to why I am yelling en-deer-ments at him.  Then it dawns on him that - indeed - there are large, white-tailed, warm-blooded animals not too far in front of the car and he brakes.

Chicago can teach one to avoid muggers, Venice can teach one to avoid poor quality fish.  Deer are something altogether new for both of us.

As Pnut said yesterday, “I still find it strange that wild animals just prance around, clippity-clop, in the streets, and in our back yard!”.

Clippity-clop, strange indeed.  Here is the view from our back deck at least once a day (if you count four, you’re correct, and there are another three out of frame):

And when we’re not fascinated by the wildlife, we are awed by the pastimes in our neighborhood. After watching, drop-jawed, the whole of our town on the lake last Saturday, ice-fishing and riding snow-mobiles, Pnut decided to get brave.  What you see here is precisely as far as either of us got.  It’s about one hundred yards from our front door.  I’m safely behind the camera, on solid ground in case you didn’t guess.  Charlie, I think, wanted to go with his dad but I had visions of myself sliding behind him with a couple of broken legs while he dragged me across the lake.

My friend Kye, who was really into astrology, once told me that people pass through particular years of their lives that are full of change - years when the stars and the planets of their astrology are so much in flux that everything changes.  This must be one of those years.  Let me show you:

February: I have a nervous breakdown

March: Pnut doesn’t care that I’m crazy, asks me to marry him anyway.  Appropriately, at carnevale in Venice.

April: Quiet… too quiet!  I am home with various medications, Dad flies in from the US to keep an eye on me.

May: Drugs, more antipsychotic drugs.  The right drugs?  The wrong drugs?  Let’s experiment!  We get Charlie the wonderdog, to keep me company.  Let’s face it, two dogs licking your face makes you happier than one.  Oh yeah, I get lyme disease, too.  Wedding planning for Chicago in June.  Family drama and fighting.  Paperwork.

June: Back to the job I hate but which I may or may not be losing. More family fighting about the wedding. We get married.  Luckily, I have plenty of tranquilizers to go along with the antipsychotics.  Then, the woman I consider my grandmother passes away after kicking a rare leukemia’s ass for over six months.

July:  My mother’s brother, my Uncle Budda dies suddenly of a massive heart attack.  The family dog, Rudy, has to be put to sleep.  Oh… and I lose my job, finally, formally.

August: Plans to move to the US are underway.  Embassy visits, paperwork.  A house-hunting trip to New Jersey!?  Looking at nursing schools and prerequisites and trying to figure out how the fuck I’m going to pass math classes.  I attend the memorial service for the woman I consider my grandmother.

September: My mom is diagnosed with a stage one tubular carcinoma in her left breast.  I’ve already been to the US twice this year, and we can’t afford a third trip.  I’ll have to manage my anxiety knowing she’ll be here for my wedding in October two weeks after her lumpectomy.

Paolo lost both of his parents to cancer.  The tumor in his mother’s head made her blind when he was six, and she lost her mind over the following few years.  She passed away when he was twelve.  That was the last time he ever cried.  His father was found to have a metastisized (to the bones) lung cancer when Paolo was eighteen.  He lost him not long after.  Now, he has a brand new family.  A huge, loud, obnoxiously loving and close-knit family.  And the C-word makes it’s appearance not long after.  I hate that fucking word.  I hate it for him, and I hate it for me.

I have led a relatively easy and blessed life.  I’m not sure if knowing or not knowing anxiety and grief make them any easier to live with.  All I know is I fucking hate cancer.  And my mom is one badass little Indian lady.

Pnut and I have decided that instead of giving presents at our wedding (which Europeans think is odd anyhow), we will donate ten euros per guest to the Cancer Research Foundation.

Do you know anybody who fought or is fighting cancer?  Please share your story.

Pnut and I live in an 8th floor penthouse apartment.  Not as fancy as it sounds, I promise you. Basically a small living room connected to a small bedroom by a small halllway.  But we do have two large terraces, one at either end of the apartment (kitchen, bedroom) with glass doors running the length of each room to let in plenty of light (well, usually rain, but nevermind).  Generally, we leave both terrace doors a bit open and a great breeze rustles through the apartment.  The terraces connect to the roof next door on one side, which hasn’t caused us any sort of problems… until lately.   But while I was with my parents in Nashville a couple of weeks ago, I had a funny phonecall from Pnut.

Pnut: Topo, I’m SUPER sleepy today!

me: Babe, you’re ALWAYS sleepy unless we’re going climbing in the morning.

Pnut: No really, last night I was doing the dogs work all night!

me: …?

Pnut: You know the kit-ties [this is the-super cute and endearing- way Pnut pronounces kitties]  that hang out on the roof next door?  Well last night I woke up and heard yummy yummy crunch crunch sounds coming from the kitchen.

me: … ?  …?  Huh?

Pnut: The kit-ties were in the kitchen, eating the dog food!  And these bloody dogs!  Scapi said woof from her sleep and Charlie didn’t even move from his bed.  So I had to go chase the kit-ties away.  All I saw was two little little cat-asses disappearing through the terrace door.  And they did it a bunch of times!  Now because these bloody dogs are so lazy I have to sleep with the terrace door closed and it’s SO HOT!

me: (hysterical laughing)

At least, it was funny until I spent the last three nights woken up by “yummy yummy crunch crunch sounds” and chasing kit-ties out of the kitchen.  Sure enough, Scapi was streached out upside down at the foot of the bed and managed one sleepy “wou” (apparently, “woof” if just too taxing past midnight) and Charlie let out a sleepy moan from his place half-buried in my folded clean clothes.  Oh… and the dogs’ food bowl was half empty!

GUEST POST BY HANSOSAN

It just isn’t fair to let Scapi occupy all the limelight, so here is at least one exclusive Charlie shot too… 

Oh boy, I'm so nervous I could start smoking...

Friday night:

Hansosan, his daughter and I head down to Fontainebleau to catch up with P.  The hansosan has decided to come along despite an extremely painful bursitis of the elbow.  About a half hour past Paris I ask him to pull over so I can vomit copiously at a gas station.  I’d forgotten my meds.  Ten minutes back on the road, and his daughter faints in the car.  This is not something unexpected, as she has spent the last year battling unexplained fainting fits that look a lot like epilepsy but haven’t been properly diagnosed.  We finally roll into the campground around midnight, and the gates are locked.  I call P and he helps us chuck all our packs and bags to the tents.

Saturday:

It is now day two without my meds.  This was a bad idea.  A very bad idea.  It rains most of the day.  P, of course, manages to climb anyhow.  I spend the better part of the afternoon making moss-fairy boats.

The fairy’s name is Esmerelda, by the way, and if you can’t see her then you don’t believe.

I curl up with the dogs and pass out.  I should have brought my meds. 

When we get back to the campsite I notice a few ticks on Charlie.  I pull them out.  Then I notice a few ticks on Scapi.  I pull them out.  Then I realise that the lovely afternoon nap was had in a tickbed.  I rush to the tent and call P in to do what true love requires.  Luckily, no ticks in my ass.  Unfortunately, one has embedded itself close enough to my hoo-ha to make me scream and yank it out before P can reach the tweezers.  I burn the sonofabitch.

Saturday night:

I’m twitching and jerking all over the place.  My brain feels something like fireworks if they could make them into a yo-yo.  I hold myself together reasonably well and we have a lovely birthday dinner for the hansosan.  His daughter faints again on the way home.  This time, it’s a long episode.  We sit up with her for an hour or so, until she feels well enough to go to the tent.  We all go to bed.

I wake up in the tent and smell shit.  I mean- I smell SHIT.  Like somebody rubbed my nose in it.  Since I feel a bit like a crackhead in withdrawal, I sense that smelling shit could just be another side effect.  So I wake Paolo.  He is blind without his glasses but finally finds a pile of puke in the tent and cleans it up.  To Charlie’s credit, he actually tried to wake Paolo up several times before depositing the little pile of grass and bile neatly next to our heads.

About an hour later, I wake up in the tent and smell shit.  Paolo’s glasses come out again, but we don’t see anything.  Back to sleep. 

You can repeat that last paragraph two more times.

Sunday:

I wake up in the morning to find that Charlie has projectile-liquid-shit all over my sleeping bag.  And my backpack.  And my clothes.  And my side of the tent.  Everything on Paolo’s side of the tent is perfectly clean.  But I have been sleeping in diarrhea.  I run out of the tent and vomit copiously.  This is not the way to start day three without meds.  Lovely P cleans everything while I writhe and moan in the car.

So, to sum up the weekend: bursitis, vomiting, fainting, tick near hoo-ha, projectile diarrhea, and no meds.  Oh… and we may have climbed a wee bit as well, but I’ll have to let you know once I’m properly medicated again.